


only thing to do

by flowermasters



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mission Fic, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Recovery, Sambucky Bingo 2019, Sambucky Bingo Fill, Wet Dream, bucky has a lot of feelings and is: critically horny, love that Pisces, weirdly enough:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 13:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20995376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: Bucky listens to Sam hum and feels the road gently rock under them and falls pleasantly asleep somewhere along the way.Sambucky Bingo Fill: "wet dream."





	only thing to do

**Author's Note:**

> So I fudged the details a bit on this fill. [Here's a link to my Bingo card.](https://66.media.tumblr.com/004f549586fc7d98b622244613b4e769/tumblr_pz8oapIUcC1rs54bxo1_400.jpg)

The car’s warm, almost hot, but not in an unpleasant way. The full sunlight streaming in through the windows hits just right, imbuing everything with a dozy warmth, and the road ahead is long and smooth. Sam is humming, just barely audible over the low rumble of the radio; he’ll probably never have a career in show business, but he has a good voice, deep and steady. Sam Cooke and still two more hours to Waco, of all places, where Sharon’s sent them next. Bucky listens to Sam hum and feels the road gently rock under them and falls pleasantly asleep somewhere along the way.

Even his dreams are pleasant, which is uncommon. Generally, he either doesn’t dream at all—as the Winter Soldier he never dreamed, his brain was always shut off when he slept, if you could call it that—or he has unhappy dreams about upsetting things, things that should have no business being thought of on a sunny day like today, but often are. But these dreams are sunny and warm, flickering, and Sam is there.

Sam is there, companionably close at first, his shoulder bumping Bucky’s, his hand catching loosely at Bucky’s forearm like he’s laughing hard and needs something to grab on to. Then his closeness is not so companionable; his head rests in the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, heavy, his fingers hooked in Bucky’s belt loops, light. He kisses Bucky’s neck.

The things he dreams about come in fragments, flickering and colorful like something on the other end of a kaleidoscope, but there are enough pieces to form a fairly immersive experience. He dreams of Sam’s hands—warm, strong, with callouses on his thumbs—sliding up under his shirt, settling around his ribs. He kisses Sam’s soft, open mouth, and then that mouth is inexplicably—but not unpleasantly—around two of his fingers, and then it’s around his dick.

He wakes up when the car jostles as Sam steers it into a parking lot, and that’s the image he wakes thinking of, Sam’s face, his eyes softly closed, the lids almost fluttering, his mouth working—

“Sorry,” Sam mutters, “that’s a hell of a bump there, they should repave that—” and Bucky isn’t paying attention, because he’s overwhelmingly aware that if his dick had anything more substantial to press up against than the seam of his jeans, he’d probably be about to come. He’d _ definitely _ be about to come. What had been a pleasant warmth to begin with has escalated to uncomfortable heat, like he’s baking in his clothes. If it weren’t for the looseness of these particular jeans and the way he’s positioned, slumped to the side away from Sam with his arm slung over his lap, the situation would be painfully obvious.

Bucky clears his throat, dry as a bone, and moves his head away from the window. “Where are we?”

“Bumfuck, Nowhere,” Sam says, which Bucky takes to mean the outskirts of Waco, Texas. The orangey sun is lower in the sky than he remembers; the dashboard clock reads 5:23 PM. He’s been asleep for hours. He can’t remember the last time he fell asleep during the day, _ just because_.

Sam guides the car into a parking spot, and Bucky takes in their surroundings—a Days Inn this time; they’ve been at a string of seedy independents recently—and tries very hard not to notice the way the muscles in Sam’s forearm flex as he turns the wheel. His dick is still quite hard, which sort of boggles the mind—not that it’s hard, but that it’s hard now, and because of Sam. Sort of.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters.

“Yeah, you were really out,” Sam says, putting the car in park. “You slept like a rock over there.” 

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says, as Sam turns off the ignition and unbuckles his seatbelt. 

He sort of forgets to move, and Sam must notice, because he pauses, one hand loosely gripping his door handle. “You alright?” he asks, looking over at Bucky, inscrutable behind a pair of Aviator sunglasses. Gas station ones, but they look nice on him. _ Stop thinking about him sucking your dick_, Bucky thinks, and for some reason the voice in his head sounds very urgent.

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Slept too hard, I guess.”

“Mm,” Sam says, vaguely amused, lips quirking. “You got a cheek print, man. Drink some water, you’ll feel better.”

He gets out of the car then, and Bucky reaches up to touch the cheek that was resting against the window; it’s warm to the touch, so he’s sure there’s a pink pressure mark left behind. Sam walks off, stretching out his arms and shoulders as he heads to the front lobby to check them in, and Bucky—instead of watching him get there—stares hard at the leather dashboard for a few moments and thinks about anything mundane, interstate highways, buzzards, tumbleweeds, in an effort to get his body and his brain back on a similar track.

By the time Sam comes back to the car, Bucky has mostly gotten a grip on things, although the situation is still precarious. The last of the cool water from Sam’s fancy metal bottle has helped abate the sickly, post-nap acidity in his stomach. He’s able to get out of the car, fetch his bag, and follow Sam to the room without making an ass of himself. Sam does what he usually does, which is immediately toss all his shit onto the bed closest to the door, leaving Bucky to move around him, somewhat childishly keeping as much distance between them as he can.

“You sure you’re okay?” Sam asks, when Bucky drops his bag on his own bed. “You seem kind of—out of it.”

He _ is _ out of it, both from sleep inertia and arousal that is still barely under control. He’s not used to this sort of thing, to his body disobeying him like this, to his body having—not needs, but desires. Wants. He was the Winter Soldier, and even before that, just a soldier; he ought to be able to snap awake, bodily needs forgotten, and get the fuck on with the task at hand. Instead, as he turns to look at Sam, all he can think about is—

“Yeah,” he says, casual as can be. “I think I’m gonna take a shower. Wake myself up.”

“Sure,” Sam says. He’s taken off his sunglasses since they came inside, so Bucky doesn’t miss the way he raises his eyebrows. He realizes that his voice went up a little bit at the end of that last bit, maybe like he was asking a question, or asking for permission.

The bathroom somehow provides him with both a sense of relief, with its privacy, and an even sicklier feeling, with its off-white lighting, off-white tiles, off-white feel. He strips and doesn’t bother with making the water cold; there’s no use pretending he’s not about to do what he’s about to do. It’s strangely hard to lie to himself right now, even when he can feel his ability to focus waning again as blood reroutes south from his brain.

His nipples are already peaked, dick stiff and aching, in the cool air of the bathroom; the warm water soothes him briefly before his palm on his dick sets his skin to prickling again. He’s glad that there’s an edge of discomfort to the touch, a dryness at first; then it gets a little slicker and is quickly too good. He’s aiming to get this handled in the most business-like way possible, but then he’s shivering, withholding a groan, thigh bumping painfully into the soap dish as he leans against the wall, overwhelmed.

He tries very hard not to think of Sam, not in that way, but then he’s thinking of Sam in other ways. Sam, who this morning before they left went for a run and came back with bagels for both of them, still warm in their crinkly paper bag; who can find a way to crack a joke about anything but is also one of the most genuinely kind and compassionate people Bucky has ever met; who talks in his sleep on occasion, sometimes incoherently, sometimes fretfully, and sometimes so casually that Bucky thinks he’s awake, but no matter what it always leaves Bucky with a weird tender urge to get out of bed and go to him, see what he needs.

Thinking about Sam _ that _ way, that soft way, leaves him feeling off-kilter, though not entirely in a bad way. It’s easier to let his mind return to those dreams, to the idea—the pleasant concept—of Sam’s hot, wet mouth. Now Bucky’s brain helpfully supplies him with a catalogue of things Sam does that he finds deeply attractive: the entirely innocuous way he’ll lick the pad of his thumb to turn a page, how his ass looks in running shorts, or how when he gets out of bed in the morning, shirtless, and stretches, the muscles of his back and shoulders pull taut, then release, usually accompanied by a soft groan of relief. Bucky jerks himself faster, gives in, picks up where the dream left off; he imagines Sam’s mouth, imagines coming in that mouth, Sam swallowing him down, and damn near shivers out of his skin with pleasure.

He would give Sam anything he asked for, Bucky thinks, if only Sam would ask; therein lies the rub. Sam’ll watch him when he thinks Bucky isn’t looking, and smile at him sometimes like they’re in on a joke together, and will sigh in his sleep and mumble something plaintive, something lonely, but he won’t ask for anything. If he did, Bucky would give it to him—his mouth, his dick, his ass, anything.

When Bucky finally bites off a groan and comes, cheek pressed against the cool, wet tile, he’s left with that, the enormity of how badly he wants. He’s not familiar with wanting this kind of thing anymore. Maybe he never was that familiar with this kind of wanting.

He washes himself perfunctorily, painful post-orgasm clarity making him self-conscious and hasty. He didn’t even remember to grab his shower supplies, so he bathes with the tiny bar of hotel soap and the crummy shampoo that will make his hair feel dry. He towels off, throws on the fresh sweatpants he _ did _remember to grab in his rush to escape before Sam noticed anything was up, and goes back into the main room, rubbing at his hair with a towel.

Sam is lying on the bed by the door, shoes off, socks on, idly flipping through channels on the television; he glances immediately at Bucky when he enters. “Feel better?” he asks.

Guilt inchworms uncomfortably down Bucky’s spine, but he does his best to ignore it. He doesn’t miss the way Sam’s gaze sticks to him for a second or two too long. Bucky refuses to entertain the idea that Sam knows what he’s been doing. He doesn’t go to his bag to fetch a shirt, just stands there, letting Sam look at him. Wondering if Sam wants him.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m alright. Thanks.”

“Sure, man,” Sam says, and his expression relaxes slightly, the strange tension between them dissipating for the moment. Bucky sits down on his own bed and settles back to watch TV with Sam; Sam gripes about there being nothing on, then settles on a movie neither of them have seen before. The movie’s tolerable and the companionship is nice. It’ll be back, that tension, when Bucky least expects it, but he’s strangely alright with that. Strangely enough, he’s alright.


End file.
